Springs of Change
by RavenclawGenius
Summary: Clexa/Commander Princess: Prompt fic. "How about Clarke and Lexa taking a bath and keep getting interrupted while in said bath. Nothing too serious, just something funny and sexy." Veered a little off course, but I think I hit all the major requests.


_Author's Note: _Firstly, this is a one-shot humbly dedicated to _RagnarWolf, _who was the 100th reviewer of my ongoing story, _Forged in War. _Secondly, I'm not sure how strictly I adhered to the prompt, but I hope it doesn't disappoint. It's very long, and probably could have been split into at least three easy chapters, but I like it better all as one - plus, I promised a one-shot, so... there. :P

**Prompt: **"How about Clarke and Lexa taking a bath and keep getting interrupted while in said bath. Nothing too serious, just something funny and sexy."

* * *

Clarke is pretty sure that she misheard.

It's an earnest possibility, because Clarke's understanding of Trigedasleng is shaky at best (and practically nonexistent at worst), so it's entirely likely that something has been very, very lost in translation.

… Which is maybe not something to be proud of, since Clarke has spent more time in the Trigedakru's company in recent weeks than with her own people, but… well, fucking _float_ her. Grounder language may be derived from English, but that only carries Clarke so far. And she's been planning a _war_, so, like, she's been _busy_, and Clarke feels like that's a moderately fair excuse.

Learning the native language had seemed infinitely less pressing than saving her people from Mount Weather.

Leaders have to make the hard choices – or that's what Lexa keeps telling her, anyway, so Clarke has to believe that it's true, because she's the inexperienced one in this regard – and that one had been a pretty simple decision for Clarke, so she'd taken the easy choice when she could.

She's _sure_ that she misheard. Or maybe misinterpreted, which is also entirely conceivable.

Only, Clarke is equally confident that _'bas'_ and_ 'Klok'_ and _'Heda'_ had all definitely been tossed into the blend of Indra's declaration, somewhere; Clarke doesn't know much, but she recognizes her name and Lexa's title, and she's ninety-eight percent sure that _'bas'_ has always come right before an hour long period of stifling irritation while Lexa is escorted to the hot springs for a leisurely soak and Clarke impatiently awaits her return to the council room.

Clarke has translated it to mean 'bath,' but now she isn't totally sure.

Because, honestly, what sort of _actual_ sense would it make for her name to fall in line with Lexa's in the same sentence as _bath_? From _Indra's_ mouth?

Clarke is exhausted, and she has a supremely aggravating, mildly (… _reasonably_) concerning gash yawning the length between her temple and jaw – Clarke can't clearly remember the details of how she retained the wound, only that Cage had swiped a Grounder's knife in desperation and had tried to bleed Clarke's life with it, only to fall victim to the same blade at Clarke's vindictive hand – so this likely shouldn't be such a pressing concern, anyway, but it is all that Clarke can bear to think on.

Because if she lets herself think on anything else, then she will think on the blood, and the death, and the fear and pain and relentless _gore_ that she had spent the past several hours scarcely surviving; Clarke will have to think of her people, and how she will tell them about all the things she has sacrificed and the lives she has stolen in order to keep them safe; she will have to assess her dead and wonder if her people's freedom had truly been worth the price she had paid for it.

Understandably, Clarke chooses to trouble herself over this foreign stretch of curiosity, instead.

Because, frankly… the alternative _sucks._ And Clarke's really had enough of sucky things for a while, and she thinks the pain might be getting to her head, anyway, so she refuses to feel badly about it.

"Come, Clarke," Lexa tells her, perched proudly atop her horse, striking in her blood-soaked visage.

Lexa is hurt, too, and Clarke's fingers itch against the reins of her own steed with restrained desire to evaluate the wounds. She can't clearly make out which streams of blood lining the Commander's armor are Lexa's own, but she's sure that there's at least one laceration carved through the woman's calf, and Clarke wants to be sure it's taken care of.

Lexa is smart, but she is stubborn and annoyingly prideful, so it wouldn't surprise Clarke _even a little _if she decided to forego seeking medical attention.

"Where are we going?" Clarke blinks, because she's fairly sure that her thoughts are strange for post-battle mind, but this is still a concern; she may want to forget about leading her people, just for a few more hours, but Clarke recognizes that there are things to be done before she can crawl into her tent for sleep, and it's important that she find out where she's headed so that she can figure out how long she has to stay there.

Fair enough, Clarke decides.

"The springs," Lexa answers, casting dark green eyes side-long in Clarke's direction.

Clarke's glad that the horse is walking for her, because she's pretty positive she would've stumbled at Lexa's words, and that probably would've been intensely mortifying. Because, seriously, what the hell happened to the Trigedasleng words and the illusion of misinterpretation?

The clarity of English sort of isn't working in her favor this time around, Clarke determines.

"Why?" Clarke frowns, head lofting to the side with her demand.

"It is tradition amongst my people that the Commander be tended to after battle by those she has protected," Lexa explains, though her eyes will not meet Clarke's, and Clarke wonders if it is by awkward design or if Lexa is truly unconcerned by the nature of this custom.

Clarke hesitates, but her brain to mouth filter is not as cautious as she'd like.

In fairness, it's been, like, _months_ since she's claimed any significant measure of sleep, so it's not even her fault. Not really.

"Like, bathed?" Clarke blurts out. "I mean," she flushes crimson and bows her head in effort to hide it, but Clarke can't ever hide _anything_ from Lexa, and it's deeply infuriating, and the reminder only colors Clarke's cheeks further, "we're going to the springs for a bath?"

… _Together?_

And, alright, so maybe it's not the most significant part – because maybe Clarke should feel honored or flattered or startled or _something_ by the notion that Lexa's people evidently consider Clarke to be a Commander they must care for, too – but all Clarke can think of is the kiss before the battle and Lexa's strong fingers so tenderly brushing beneath her ear, and, like… Clarke can't just _bathe with her_.

That's a damn disaster waiting to happen.

Lexa's lips quirk at the edges, and this might normally sink warmth into the pits of Clarke's stomach, but now she is only eager to learn where the amusement stems from.

"It is our way," Lexa remarks temperately.

But her eyes shimmer in this enormously confusing manner that makes Clarke think that maybe she understands Clarke's reluctance, but only thinks it's funny. Which Clarke doesn't exactly think is altogether _fair_, but whatever.

"That's not- I mean, Lexa, I need a little more information, here," Clarke finally manages to put together.

Lexa chuckles – and it's the first time that Clarke has really heard her laugh, but, freaking _stars_, it's like she's heard it a thousand times, because it is husky and familiar, like a secret shared just between them, and it is soft and low, and it makes Clarke _itch_.

"We will bathe together, and will have our injuries seen to by women of the village," Lexa tells her gently. "It brings them comfort. We have lead our people to battle and have provided them a service, Clarke; we have offered them sanctuary, and my people are not unappreciative. Caring for us in the wake of war is how they choose to settle the debt. The _Bas_," Lexa announces, like it is somehow a proper event and not only a humble presentation put forth by Lexa's people, "is a ceremonial custom, Clarke. It is important to my people, particularly in your case, as this day marks your first victory in battle. It would be… unwise to deny this gift; my people will not take to such refusal kindly. It is an offering of respect, and gratitude; our alliance could build well upon such a foundation."

Right. So, like, it's honorable and kind of sweet and ridiculously formal, which is sort of everything that Clarke thinks about the Trigedakru in general, and Lexa's essentially telling her that it would be an offense to turn the offer down.

Clarke's options are pretty limited.

"Okay?" She frowns, because this sounds like a profoundly _terrible_ idea, but it sounds like it'd be more terrible to rebel against it.

Rock, meet hard place.

And yeah, there's Clarke, too – wedged sharply between them, as usual.

"Do not worry, Clarke," Lexa says, teasing smile coloring her voice and the corners of her lips. "I will ensure that it is a painless experience for you."

* * *

The springs are, like, ridiculously hot.

Clarke knows she should've known this – because _hot_ springs… hi – but Clarke's never seen so much steam in her life, and it's _absurd_.

Lexa guides her to a small cavern which looks to be man-made, where she instructs Clarke to wait. Lexa disappears afterward with only a soft squeeze of her fingers around Clarke's wrist, and Clarke shuffles awkwardly on tired, aching feet in the foggy cave where she has been left.

The steam is making her feel fuzzy; she knows she's exhausted, but she abruptly feels like even standing upright is a _chore_. Clarke reaches blindly around for a place to sit, and when her hand meets with the smoothened planes of a boulder – which Clarke can only assume is provided for this exact purpose – she collapses upon it with a heavy sigh of relief.

She is alone for several more minutes, but Clarke isn't too worried. She isn't sure if that's because she's become comfortable with this game of waiting in the past few weeks, or if it's because she just doesn't have any more worry to spare, but for a few minutes there is nothing in Clarke's mind but muggy silence.

It's wildly relieving.

Clarke thinks the closest she's felt to this sort of naïve peace was the day the dropship carried her to Earth in its blazing path of fire and destruction. It's tainted, still, by the knowledge of everything she still has to do, but this is only a niggling concept in the back of Clarke's head.

It's hard to think in here, and Clarke thinks maybe that's the point. But, honestly, she really wishes she could've been blessed with this place weeks ago, because how is it even _remotely_ fair that Lexa has been wallowing in the harmony of this place every day when Clarke has been offered no leave to do the same?

But, also, Clarke remembers that this is an _honor_. So maybe she'd needed to earn this blessing, first.

It is there where her thoughts halt, because a woman enters the room.

(Clarke chooses 'room' for lack of a better term, but it isn't much more than a small nook off the center of the cave, which houses the springs.)

Nyko follows behind her with heavy, silent steps, and the anxiousness that Clarke had previously expected surges through her with every pounding beat of her heart, like it is more furious for every moment it had been staved off.

"_Klok kom Skaikru_," Nyka lowers his head in respect. "We thank you for your bravery in battle, and your determination to see our people to safety."

Clarke eyes him thoughtfully, then slowly, gently, replies, "Thank you for _trusting_ me to see them to safety. I'm glad that they've returned to you."

The woman beside him bears soft clothing and no armor, with only a few braids knotted into the locks of her long, dark hair. She whispers something to Clarke in Trigedasleng with soft grey eyes bearing earnestly into Clarke's own.

Clarke's brows furrow in confusion, because she can make out maybe two complete words of it, so she's relieved when Nyko offers his service for translation.

"She says that you have returned both her husband and her son, and she is immensely grateful," Nyka says humbly. "She says that she is honored to have been chosen for this right, and requests that she may dress your wounds as I see fit, if you may allow."

"What's your name?" Clarke asks her softly.

Nyko parts his lips to translate, but it isn't strictly necessary, because the woman clearly understands the question, even if she is unfamiliar with most of Clarke's language.

"Kenna," she replies bashfully.

Clarke nods, because she understands that this is important to Lexa's people, but she's still crazy overwhelmed. Grounder customs are so intense, and Clarke is never really sure how she's meant to feel or react.

"Thank you, Kenna," Clarke tells the woman honestly. "I appreciate what you're doing, here."

She smiles back at Clarke once Nyko has relayed the words – which is a little strange, because, sure, Clarke's seen Lexa smile a handful of times, but she thinks Lexa never actually _means_ to do it (in fact tries very hard _not to_), and none of the Grounders outside of Lincoln have really expressed any emotion that Clarke might consider _happy_.

Clarke spends several minutes under Nyko's scrutiny, but he doesn't stay long. He evaluates the depth of Clarke's wounds – and finds another deep slice through Clarke's left hip which Clarke hadn't honestly taken note of – before providing the woman with a jar of some salve and some cloths for bandages. He then takes his leave with another low bow of his head, and Clarke wonders if she is more relieved by his exit or worried.

Clarke supposes this woman seems nice enough, but… language barriers are pretty tough to overcome, and Clarke's woefully out of her depth, uncomfortably situated in this ritual with no damn _clue_ how it's meant to proceed.

Still, the woman kneels at Clarke's feet not a moment after he has gone, so Clarke startles and asks, "Hey, what are you doing?"

The woman frowns, but lowers her fingers to Clarke's boot and tugs questioningly against it.

Clarke blushes furiously, because, okay, _now_ she gets it, but it's still hard to conceive that this woman is actually trying to undress her.

"Oh," she blinks. "Okay. Okay," she says again with a bit more confidence (that is largely feigned, but no one but Clarke really needs to know that) and nods to the woman, who smiles shyly and resumes her task.

Clarke's socks follow her boots, and then she is led to stand. Kenna strips Clarke of her outer leather jacket, and it is then Clarke begins to feel self-conscious, arms folding across her chest. Kenna gently lowers them back to her sides with a reassuring look to her face that actually doesn't do much to reassure Clarke at all.

She really tries to be understanding of the Trigedakru ways, but this is so foreign to her, and the ways of _Clarke's_ people dictate that nudity is a pretty intimate state of being. It's hard for Clarke to really let go of that.

Still, she allows Kenna to remove all of her armor and the clothes beneath, extremely grateful when Kenna immediately wraps something similar to a towel around her waist once she is finished. It reaches to mid-thigh and covers her chest, which is as comfortable as Clarke thinks she's going to get. The material is soft, and thinner than she's used to, but for the sake of modesty it's more than enough to ease some of Clarke's tension.

Kenna smiles warmly and tugs softly against Clarke's fingers in an effort to guide her from the room. Clarke frowns, however, and looks toward the bandages.

"_Pas_," Kenna tells her, then contorts her face briefly in concentration. "_After_," she decides a moment later.

Right.

Because how much sense would it make to bandage Clarke's wounds _before_ she's about to be soaked in the springs?

_Branwada_, Clarke scoffs to herself.

Outwardly, however, she only smiles sheepishly, and Kenna smiles that little reassuring thing again which still has no impact on Clarke at all. Because she thinks they're ready, now – what else could Kenna possibly do to prepare her for a bath? – and that means she'll see Lexa, soon, and that–

Clarke can't really afford to think about it, actually. She might lose whatever sanity she has left.

* * *

Kenna excuses herself once she has led Clarke to the springs, and Clarke is grateful that the audience has removed itself, but it doesn't actually help all that much.

Because there's Lexa, head cocked slightly to the right with those unreadable, deliriously intoxicating green eyes scanning the length of Clarke's frame. It isn't so much that she's devouring Clarke – though Clarke thinks that may very well be what _she_ is doing to _Lexa_ – it is more that Lexa seems to be searching her for something.

Injuries, Clarke's mind produces weakly, several jarring seconds too late.

Which, yeah. Makes total sense. She should probably do the same, only Lexa's entirely stripped of clothing and all Clarke can see is her shoulders on upward (and the _wholly unfair_ rise of her breasts peeking from beneath the water, which is purely sinful and largely damaging to Clarke's cognitive function), and as far as Clarke can tell, there's no injury to be found, there.

Only endless stretches of smooth, dark skin which shines lightly with the sheen of water that coats across it.

When Lexa's eyes find hers, she smiles again – small, inviting, and deliciously soothing – so Clarke smiles hesitantly back at her. It is not a moment later that the lines of Lexa's mouth flicker into a smirk and her gaze lowers again, and now – _now_ – Clarke is being devoured, she's sure of it.

She is being _consumed_ beneath Lexa's hungry eyes, and swift heat strikes in the pit of her stomach in reply, because Lexa is – and has always been – incredibly intense, and this is even more intense than usual.

It's a pretty serious problem, Clarke thinks, because how is she supposed to honor the sanctity of this ritual if she cannot even _move_ under the heat of Lexa's stare?

"_Lexa_," she huffs, but it is also a hugely embarrassing whimper.

Lexa's smirk widens, only for a moment, before she bows her head in acquiescence and shifts to turn her back to Clarke.

Clarke isn't sure how long Lexa's patience with her will hold, so she scrambles to loosen the cloth wrapped around her and drops it to the ground. When she has submerged herself within the water, Clarke releases a hard, momentarily unapologetic moan of bliss. Because, honest, she's never in her life felt as wonderful in body as she does in this moment, despite the infuriatingly painful sting that accosts the sites of her wounds.

Her eyes flicker apart – because, yeah, they'd briefly fluttered shut in that simple moment of genuine _ecstasy_ – and meet Lexa's amused green irises immediately after.

Clarke blushes, but Lexa chuckles again.

"It is intended to be enjoyable, Clarke," Lexa tells her comfortingly. "There is no need for shame."

"Sorry," Clarke shrugs, a weak smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I know. It's just, I've never actually _had_ a bath. Not like this, anyway. On the Ark, water was rationed as much as everything else; we were only allowed ten minutes of shower time a day before the water shut off, twenty on Sundays, and baths didn't even exist; after we made it to the Ground, it was too dangerous to spend much time at the river beyond what was necessary, you know. I've never had a bath just _because_. And it's never been so _warm_," she hisses reverently, hands hovering above the water for no purpose other than to feel the rising heat against her palms.

Lexa eyes her thoughtfully for a moment, before she murmurs, "That is a pity. I find that they are very… relieving."

"_Yeah_," Clarke approves breathily. "Agreed."

"Particularly," Lexa hesitates, which should be a fat, flashing sign if Clarke has ever seen one, but she is so enamored with this feeling that she fails to take notice when she definitely, _definitely _should have, "when in the company of one I feel intimacy for."

It takes a second for the words to swim through the waters between them, but when they do, Clarke's breath catches. And that's being generous, because what Clarke's breath _actually_ does is _shatter_.

It doesn't stick to her tongue or stammer in her throat; Clarke just feels like all of the breath in her lungs has been punched out of her and broken, because in this moment, she can't remember how to breathe at all, and isn't entirely interested in learning.

There are more important things to learn, like the depth in Lexa's eyes and the soft vulnerability upon her face, still dripping with blood and smeared with the little remains of war paint that had survived the night.

She isn't sure how to answer – how the hell is she supposed to follow that? Like, honestly… _how?_ – but she wants to. She wants to tell Lexa that she's beautiful and that Clarke _wants_ and that Lexa should be careful with how she chooses to tempt, because Clarke has tired her strength and has little resistance left in her.

Instead, she whispers shakily, "Show me why?"

Lexa's eyes flash with… Well, Clarke isn't wholly sure _what_ it is, but it's dark and demanding and it slinks up Clarke's spine and coils until she thinks she might seize beneath its burning squeeze.

The Commander tries to speak, but clicks her teeth together a moment later, irritation playing across her features with unabashed intensity.

Clarke frowns, momentarily panicked that she had chosen the absolute _wrong_ thing to say, but Lexa's eyes soften and she flicks her gaze to one of the tunnels leading into the spring, where Kenna and another unnamed woman carefully approach.

Clarke understands the irritation now, at least, because she feels a hell of a lot of it festering inside her own gut. Like, sure, this probably isn't the _best_ time for hot spring flirtations, but Clarke's learned recently that she has to take what she can get whenever she can get it.

That's not to say that this moment with Lexa has happened by chance; the Commander is hardly a consolation prize.

She's just… _extra_.

Extra company, extra comfort, extra strength, extra wisdom; Lexa is _extra_.

(Clarke's blurry mind recognizes the rhyme, but she is too caught up in her thoughts and this space and the _Commander_ to even spare a chuckle for it. Later, she might tell Lexa just to watch her face fume with indignation.)

Clarke doesn't need more than she has, but she wants it, and Lexa- doesn't seem unwilling to offer. She is _extra_, for Clarke. More.

And Clarke thinks that they _deserve_ more, even if they don't _need _it, per se.

Still, the two women who'd broken that shared moment between them are not to be ignored, so Clarke sighs softly and braces herself for whatever might come next.

Kenna raises the skirts of her earth-toned dress and lines herself along the rocks at the edge of the spring, legs sinking beneath the water until it has reached her knees. The other woman does the same, and they both watch expectantly as Lexa explains the situation to Clarke.

"They wish to bathe us, now," Lexa tells her. "They will wash our hair, first."

And, like, as strange as that _sounds_, it really isn't so bad. Clarke has brief memories of her mother's fingers combing through her hair as a child, but it had never been so soothing, because there had always been the factor of time to consider; ten minutes is enough to wash your hair and bathe, but there's little room to negotiate anything else.

Now, Clarke enjoys the feeling of nails scraping gently against her scalp, and diligently ignores the streaks of dirt and mud and blood which fall into the water in steady streams with each stroke through her blonde curls. Clarke hums softly when a lulling, floral scent touches her nose, and it is so nice – so _unbearably _nice – to have actual shampoo that she purrs beneath Kenna's touch.

Kenna giggles softly, and Clarke's eyes drift blearily apart. Kenna only smiles her apology, but when Clarke meets Lexa's gaze – not a foot from her own, with the other woman performing the same dedicated ministrations to now-unbraided brunette locks – Lexa's eyes are dark and intense.

It is not a moment later that Lexa issues forth some words in Trigedasleng, which cause both women to stand and bow their heads respectfully.

Clarke frowns – because she was really _enjoying_ that, damn it – and looks to Lexa for explanation.

"I will wash you, instead," Lexa offers simply.

Clarke blinks.

Because, _what the hell?_

This entire thing is to satisfy the debt of Lexa's people, right? Clarke's pretty sure that's what she's been led to believe, anyway, so this is just confusing.

"I have requested of Kenna and Naom that I may express my gratitude for your actions in battle in their stead," Lexa says quietly.

"What about you?" Clarke frowns.

Because it's not like Lexa just offered to _bathe_ her or anything – no. It's not like Clarke could _possibly_ provide an argument for that, like how it isn't _smart_, or how she still isn't sure if she's even _ready_ for this, or how they both still need to see to their _people_.

No. Obviously the only hiccup in this plan is that Lexa won't be washed clean, too.

Lexa smirks mildly before offhandedly replying, "I may summon Naom to bathe me if it is necessary. Or," she pauses, stretching a finely muscled arm behind her to grab for first a thicker piece of cloth, then a small glass bottle which Clarke can only assume holds some form of body wash, "you could express your gratitude in turn, if that is your wish."

Clarke swallows.

And then she swallows again.

It is entirely unjust, what Lexa can do to Clarke with her words; Clarke feels each one like a soft stroke upon her heart and like a tiny flame that grows and burns and spreads along the streets of her veins.

"Lexa," she whispers gently. "I – "

"It need be nothing more, Clarke," Lexa interrupts, soaking the cloth with whatever solution she pours from the bottle. "If you are uncomfortable, you need only speak it. It is my wish to offer you thanks – comfort, perhaps, if you may allow; I have no desire to see you in distress. I have witnessed enough of that in you, Clarke of the Sky People."

Clarke nods. It is slow, but sure, and she smiles gently in answer, because Lexa can be unerringly _sweet_, sometimes, and it's moments like this when Clarke remembers _exactly_ why she is so attracted to Lexa.

She is a warrior, and she is strong and fierce, but she is a _girl_, too.

_Just a girl._

Just like Clarke.

She is soft, at times, and she is gentle and caring. She offers kind words and promises only what she is sure she can deliver. Lexa is every bit worthy of the adoration Clarke feels for her.

Lexa takes the cloth and submerges it in the water, only for a moment, before she wades closer. And this, truthfully, is Clarke's undoing, even before the touch that follows, because even if she _can't_ see Lexa in her entirety through the steam, Clarke still _knows_ that the only thing keeping their flesh from meeting is a bunch of molecules bonded of hydrogen and oxygen.

There is nothing but _water_ between them, and it is most definitely not enough.

But Lexa raises the cloth and first strokes softly along the uninjured side of Clarke's face. She sweeps the wetted material in gentle whirls around Clarke's brow, dipping the cloth beneath the water with frequency in order to keep it clean. Lexa moves tenderly down her temple, rubbing gentle paths across the rounded rise of her cheeks, flushed with red beneath the dirt and grime that Lexa washes away to reveal.

Lexa's eyes only sparingly meet hers, and Clarke guesses it's probably for reassurance purposes only, because Clarke watches every flicker of emotion that spreads across Lexa's face, and it's like the Commander is in awe of her. Clarke isn't sure how she feels about it, because she isn't sure there's much left in her to hold in that kind of high esteem, but she recognizes the look of dedication in Lexa's eyes; Lexa is memorizing this – memorizing _Clarke_.

Lexa's motions grow ever gentler as she reaches the opposite side of Clarke's face, still oozing with fresh blood and caked in all that had shed earlier and dried. She doesn't linger, only cleans it and moves on, stretching the cloth down the slope of Clarke's jaw and wiping the grime from the smooth column of her neck.

Clarke begins to tremble, because she knows that her shoulders and chest will follow, and then Lexa's hands will draw lower on her flesh – all _over _it, Clarke thinks with a quiet groan – and Clarke will quite possibly _ravish_ her in reply.

Lexa smiles, slow and uninhibited by restraint, at the noise that escapes Clarke's chest, but Clarke's breath has already begun to quicken and she can produce no response _whatsoever _that isn't clumsy or awkward or entirely too forthright.

"The ego," she manages to choke out on a breathy chuckle.

But Lexa presses the cloth over her heart and pushes slightly, guiding Clarke's back against the smooth wall of rocks surrounding them. Her eyes are soft; questioning, and devout.

Clarke isn't sure what the question is, exactly, but she's pretty sure that her answer is yes.

Lexa can do whatever the hell she wants, right now. Clarke has neither the capacity nor the will to stop her, and even if she did, her words still can't find voice, so it wouldn't really make a difference. She offers a tentative, sweet smile instead, and Lexa sighs softly, wading a little closer – but not close enough to touch, because, Clarke thinks, _that_ would just be too good.

Still, the brunette's face tips inward, and her nose nudges softly against Clarke's own, and Clarke definitely can't remember how breathing works, or how lungs work, or how her brain _requires_ oxygen to work, because all Clarke can busy herself with remembering is the feel of Lexa's lips on her own and how many times Clarke has wished to feel them again in the approximate twenty-four hours since.

"Clarke," Lexa whispers, but it's a plea, and there's something remarkably dizzying about hearing the Commander _plead_ for anything – especially from Clarke – so Clarke groans again and leans her forehead into Lexa's.

Clarke has decided to kiss her.

She _has_.

Clarke's lips part for the soft gasps of air that she needs, and in preparation, because she raises her hands to Lexa's hips and feathers her touch against them, feeling the change in sensation drawn by the water which separates them. She pulls a little, tugging Lexa just that last inch closer, until their breasts touch and their hips meet and their stomachs and thighs press greedily against the other for _more_ of this insanity.

And then there is a loud bang, and a harsh snap, and Clarke cannot understand the words, but the fury behind them is evident.

Lexa stiffens and tears away, eyes darting threateningly to the cave's entrance, and it is with un_holy_ mortification that Clarke finds Bellamy and Octavia shoving past the lone guard stationed at the entrance with Octavia's bloody sword to his throat.

"_What the hell are you doing?_" Octavia demands incredulously.

And, like, firstly… _Octavia_ should know more about the Trigedakru customs than Clarke does, so it's beyond irritating that this now must be explained (as if she isn't embarrassed enough), but, secondly, isn't that sort of unfair?

Because, honestly, what the hell are _they_ doing here?

It is very clear to Clarke that they were not invited. Obviously. Because, yeah – the sword. And the yelling, and the bang.

So, no; Blake siblings – not entirely welcome, here.

"I could ask you the same," Clarke frowns, arm lifting to cover her chest, "but instead, I'm going to ask Bellamy to turn the hell around and stop _staring_."

It is hugely aggravation with the aforementioned matter that bothers her, because Clarke is not happy with this pure exposure to so many people – and somehow it's made infinitely worse by the fact that these are _her_ people, and not Lexa's, who are used to such things – and it is just _rude_ that it wasn't Bellamy's _first_ _reaction_ to turn away.

Lexa growls her consensus from the small distance that had been scrambled between them, but otherwise says nothing. Not verbally, anyway.

Clarke's pretty sure she's skewering them both alive with the heat behind that glare, though, and it's vaguely satisfying.

"Sorry, Princess," Bellamy gasps with an adequate measure of apology in his words, as he obeys her irritable request. "I uh- We hadn't heard from you since the battle, and we wanted to- make sure you were alright. The Grounders – the Tree People," he amends considerately, "told us you were here, but they said you had a few injuries and needed to be healed. We were- we were just worried."

Octavia nods her firm agreement, but she's now eyeing Clarke and Lexa with disbelief and mischief and some sick sense of pleasure that Clarke isn't entirely sure she wants to know the source of.

Because Octavia's been hidden away in the floorboards for sixteen years, but she eats up human interaction like a feast, now, because of it, and it is _disconcerting_ how deeply beneath the surface the brunette warrior is able to see when she focuses enough to _look_.

"I'm fine," Clarke answers. "They're- taking care of me."

_Lexa_ is taking care of her, now, and that is what Clarke finds most significant about this moment, because she has burned every reserve of energy left in her bones trying to care for her people and it is nice – it is so, unbelievably _gratifying _– that she is now being care _for_, instead.

And Clarke suddenly thinks she understands this strange custom, now, too, because there is so much _sense_ in this simple notion of being tended to. All that she and Lexa have done since (and before) they first met is tend to their people; the Trigedakru understand this better than Clarke, and they repay such dedication in kind.

It is _nice_.

"Leave us," Lexa demands furiously. "I will have Clarke returned to your camp once she is finished here, whenever that may be."

Clarke nods her agreement, and Octavia's eyes perk right up along with her sunken shoulders, like she _hasn't_ just fought and won a worryingly bloody war, and like the only thing she now cares about is unearthing and learning the tension that spreads beneath Clarke's neck and settles against Lexa's brow.

"That was not a request!" Lexa snaps harshly, jarring Octavia back into focus.

Because, right – Octavia's one of Lexa's warriors, now, and that means she must adhere to Lexa's commands. And Lexa has made it very clear that her dismissal was definitely, without _question_, a command.

Octavia nods fervently, and obediently lowers her head. "Yes, _Heda_. We apologize for the intrusion."

The brunette then grabs hold of Bellamy's arm and drags him away, though it's obvious that he's reluctant. He's still in search of more defined answers, Clarke knows, but she also doesn't actually _care, _because if she is interrupted again, she might very well skewer the invader herself. In real life.

… Not with the burning weight of her eyes.

It is seconds after their departure that Lexa finds her, and whatever sweetness there had been to her touch is long gone now, crushed beneath her frantic impatience.

One of Clarke's hands scrambles for purchase against the rock behind her, but the other presses hard against Lexa's spine at her lower back, pulling her closer as Lexa's mouth descends upon hers with a wild fury that Clarke isn't entirely sure how to answer.

She feels it, though, churning in her gut and scorching the back of her neck with foreign heat.

Lexa's lips are a flurry against Clarke's own, her hands fisted in Clarke's blonde locks even as they carefully avoid the injury that begins at her temple, tugging sporadically as Clarke's teeth nip into her full bottom lip. Clarke feels each pull against her hair like it is somehow directly tied to her need, because the sensation zings through her body like an electrical pulse and it is all Clarke can do to simply pull Lexa closer.

Because Finn had been her first (and she won't think about it much, now), but it definitely hadn't felt like this. The heat had been there, but milder, softer, and this is pure _want_ and pure _affection_, and the pure expression of it in the only way that actually makes sense to Clarke, in this moment.

It's fast, and it's hard, and Lexa is not gentle with her, but Clarke doesn't even _want that_, right now. She just wants to feel Lexa – more of her; more than the tangle of fingers in hair and even more than the simple press of flesh on flesh. Because as great as that is, it isn't _enough_.

So Clarke uses her palm stretched across Lexa's back to guide her hips closer, and Clarke offers a hard grind of her own against them.

Lexa unashamedly _whimpers_, and it is _delicious_, and Clarke vows to produce that sound again, and again, and again, until Lexa has no voice and can make no sound at all. It's the greatest fucking sound Clarke's ever even heard.

The Commander's lips fall from her mouth, breath heavy and suddenly expelling sharply against Clarke's neck, where she kisses, and licks, and then digs her damn teeth in, and Clarke should be offended, but she isn't, because it feels so damn _good._ And Lexa doesn't stop – not even when one of her hands slinks down Clarke's neck and over her heart, stilling only once she has reached Clarke's breast, which she cups gently, weighing it over her palm, before it is rough again, and she is squeezing, and Clarke mewls with the pleasure that follows.

"Lexa," she breathes frantically, because it is all she can do to _make_ the word, and Clarke can't be asked to give it strength, too.

Clarke's idle hand finds purpose, finally, when it curls around Lexa's cheek and all but rips her mouth away from her own flesh. Her need to feel Lexa's mouth on hers outweighs whatever torture the Commander had been issuing forth on her neck, and Lexa doesn't seem to mind, because she licks into Clarke's mouth before Clarke has even had _time_ to register her own hand slipping and falling around Lexa's neck.

But Clarke notices when Lexa surges her mouth forward to her own, because Lexa gasps, then whines with unrestrained need, and Clarke can _feel it_ hum through Lexa's throat. She lightly squeezes the gentle tendons with her fingers in hope that she might feel it again, might make that _sound_ again and feel the rumble of it through her fingertips.

Clarke's efforts are rewarded, because Lexa counterintuitively seems to enjoy the possessive touch and arches her entire upper body into Clarke's somehow further, hips canting into Clarke's own with the strength of her need.

(Clarke _knows_ this will be the source of many, many conversation points in the future, but, right now, all she can spare to think about it is that it's _hot_, and that she's all over possessing the Commander if it means that Lexa will keep making those godforsaken, _sinful_ sounds.)

"Please," Lexa hisses. "Clarke, I need – " Lexa breaks off and inhales sharply, scoring her teeth through Clarke's lower lip until it bleeds, and there's copper and heat and a tongue still reaching desperately for her own, but Lexa pulls away once she has gathered her words. "_Touch me_," Lexa demands, and it is exactly that, because she may enjoy being possessed, but Lexa obviously does not _enjoy_ that she enjoys it.

She's complicated, but she's stunning, and she's everything Clarke needs right now, and Clarke _gets it _– she _does_ – so she glides her hand from Lexa's throat to rest over her heart, even as her opposite palm brushes from Lexa's back and slips around to her hip, where Clarke then keeps moving until she has found Lexa's stomach. Clarke pushes softly against it, because she can't _touch_ Lexa if they're this close – not the way Lexa wants, and Clarke just needs to see her fall apart, right now, and can't think past it.

Lexa groans as her lower half is separated from Clarke, but it is quickly stifled by a muted gasp as Clarke's palm drifts lower, lower, until Lexa's heat is cupped in her palm.

Clarke doesn't really know what she's doing – because, yeah, women are _attractive_, and Clarke _likes them_, but she's never _been with one_. She's only ever made love once, and this is decidedly different – gender aside.

Even still, Clarke knows her own body very intimately – she'd been in solitary for a _year_, and that time doesn't just slip away; Clarke felt every _second_ of it, and passed the time however she could – and she can make a very decent guess based upon that. She does well, too, and she knows she does, because the second her fingers slide over Lexa's clit, the brunette jerks rigid and stills for a long, deafening second before she pulls a choked gasp to her thirsty lungs that draws cool air over Clarke's mouth.

"_Yes_," Lexa sighs out thankfully.

"Tell me," Clarke husks gently. "I need you to tell me what you like, Lexa. I've never done this, and I want- I want you to feel like – " Clarke swallows and shakes her head, fingers still fraying tight circles over Lexa's straining clit, struggling to grasp her own words and struggling further to make some damn _sense_ out of them. "I want you to feel like the _sky_ is burning. I want you to feel like it's burning, Lexa, and I want you to be so high on that feeling that you don't even _care_. So _tell me_," Clarke orders, but it's gentle, and hardly a whisper, because Clarke understands better, now, that Lexa wants to be ordered without feeling demeaned, and Clarke can do that.

She can, because she'd never demean Lexa, and her strength and power are undeniable; Clarke won't strip her of either one.

"_Clarke_," Lexa hisses, then snarls several words in her native tongue that Clarke can only guess are swears, because the look on Lexa's face is like the sky is _already _burning, and that's half of Clarke's mission complete, already. "I must touch you," she growls lowly, teeth biting into the line of Clarke's jaw where the flesh is tender, and it hurts, but all Clarke can think is that Lexa still feels like _magic_.

But she's confused, because she's touching _Lexa_ right now, and–

"I need to see it," Lexa says, choked. "I need to watch your eyes light with the pleasure, and your body sink beneath my own. I need your sounds against my flesh, and your heat slick against my palm. You lit the sky already upon your arrival to the Ground," Lexa whispers, shaking her head with frustrated, emotional tears wetting her eyes. "I need only watch it burn, Clarke. _Please_."

Clarke is trembling in the water, trembling under Lexa's touch, because Lexa's words are few, but they are as powerful as the Commander, herself. Her need throbs, and her blood _aches_, and that doesn't even make _sense_, but it's what Clarke feels, anyway.

"Take what you need, Lexa," Clarke swallows. "Just take it."

"I want it given," Lexa snarls forcefully, as though the concept of anything else is sin.

And it is, but that wasn't what Clarke meant at all.

"_It is,_" Clarke vows. "Lexa, I'm _giving it to you_," she swears earnestly. "_Accept_ it," she begs.

And Lexa does.

Her hand wedges between Clarke's legs a moment after, and there is so little foreplay in this, except that there had been nothing _but_ foreplay since they'd arrived at the stupid spring to begin with, and Clarke is _ready_ for her touch.

Lexa spares a heady moan before her head bows and her mouth sucks greedily upon Clarke's stiffened nipple, but, God, Clarke almost can't even _feel that_ past the fingertips that play along the length of her sex.

Her head is throbbing, and so is her heart, and if she thinks about it, so is _everything else_, but her vision is clear, and Lexa is all that she sees. Lexa is all that she hears, and – beyond the throb – Lexa is definitely all that Clarke can feel, and she gasps, then moans, then shifts her own fingers so that Lexa can echo those sounds back at her.

It is by accident, because Clarke's attention span is nearly non_existent_, right now, but her fingers slip, and then there is one toying with Lexa's entrance, and Clarke suddenly finds inspiration. It is a _great idea_, and it honestly should've occurred to her before, but she's a little _occupied_, in both body and mind, and so it just _hadn't_, yet.

But Clarke easily coaxes her middle finger inside, and Lexa bites reflexively against her nipple as her teeth clench and her chest vibrates beneath the shock of the intrusion. Clarke releases a startled yelp in answer, but it melts somewhere into a low, throaty moan that she bares into Lexa's slickened shoulder, just before her lips press against it, and then her teeth follow, marking the flesh as her own.

"_Tu_," Lexa pleads against her breast.

The inflection of it, and the softer edge at the end of the word tells Clarke that it had been requested in Trigedasleng, but it is similar enough to English that Clarke can understand its meaning.

She negotiates another finger, and instantly feels Lexa reply in kind, two fingers ripping through Clarke with force that isn't as unwelcomed as she might have thought. Clarke whimpers, her palm rising to hold Lexa's breast, though she does nothing with it but simply feel the closeness of Lexa as she lathers affection over the straining pulse in Lexa's neck with her teeth and tongue.

And it is hardly moments after that Clarke feels herself begin to crest; her blood races and her toes are nearly cramped but not quite there, yet, and her abdominals are clenching, and it is the best she can do to purr Lexa's name just before she comes undone.

It's not quiet, which is senselessly annoying, because somewhere in Clarke's mind she knows that there's a guard outside, and two women are wandering through the cavern in the event that they might be needed, but she just can't _care. S_he bends into Lexa, touching every inch of her that she can, and she relentlessly pulses her fingers with increasing roughness and desperation into Lexa's heat, even as she cries her release, only to hear it ricocheted back at her from the walls of the cave.

If Clarke feels any shame for that, it's negligible at best, so she pants and soothes kisses along the lines of Lexa's trembling shoulders, feeling her own body quake beneath the intensity of what is _happening_, here.

Lexa did not lie; Clarke doesn't doubt at all that her touch helped, but she knows – can clearly _see_ – that all Lexa had truly needed was to witness Clarke's own pleasure, because it is but moments after Clarke has finished that Lexa is doing the same.

Clarke swallows the grateful exclamation of praise that begins to fall from Lexa's mouth, because she wants to _taste it_; Clarke wants to crawl inside of that sound and make her _home_ there, because she _created_ it, and that makes it _hers_, and Clarke wants to claim it as such.

Lexa's mouth moves pliantly beneath her own, now slack and lazy and content, and Clarke feels the change burst through her own cells, too, as she moves from Lexa's mouth to offer sweet kisses along her brow, across fluttering eyelashes and a proud jaw. Her kisses are soft, and caring, and she still isn't sure exactly what she's gotten herself into, here, but whatever it is, Clarke decides in that moment that she's perfectly okay with it.

"Clarke of the Sky People," Lexa sighs warmly, cheek tucking softly over Clarke's heart as she shifts her arms between Clarke's back and the rock walling of the spring in order to hold her close, "I would like very much to keep you. If," she hesitates, fingers stroking carefully along Clarke's spine, "that is something which you desire."

Clarke swallows, and muddles her way through the overwhelming emotion that has been struck by these words and this night and this loving touch.

"I desire _you_, Lexa," Clarke murmurs softly, lowering her head into the Commanders dark, soaked hair. "I can't promise that I'm healed, you know," she whispers. "I told you I wasn't ready," she begins, voice all but gone, but what is left is filled with affection and warmth, even as Lexa stiffens at the words, "and I'm not sure that I was wrong, Lexa – but I want this. I want you. I want to call you mine, and to be yours. I'm – " Clarke stalls, and sighs, face rubbing softly against Lexa's wet locks as she shakes her head gently. "I'm not emotionally stable right now, and my heart _hurts_ for everything that's happened, but the only time it doesn't hurt so _much_ is when I'm with you. If you want to do this, if you want to start this _now_," Clarke offers slowly, then nods equally as devotedly to convey the strength behind her promise, "I can do that. I can, Lexa – but I need what I can offer you right now to be enough," she says, eyes briefly closing in the fear that maybe Lexa won't _be_ okay with this promise.

It's not fair, and Clarke knows it, but she wants to have Lexa as her own. She wants Lexa to help her heal, and she wants to help heal Lexa in turn – because even if the Commander refuses to admit vulnerability, Clarke has _seen it_, and she wants to ease it; she wants to help Lexa bear it as much as she wants Lexa to offer her the same.

She isn't ready to lose this when it's only just begun.

"_Yu pleni_, Clarke," Lexa vows earnestly folding her mouth over the tender flesh of Clarke's heart. "_You_ are enough."

Clarke's body hurts, and there is so much for them to take care of, and Kenna and Naom still have to patch up their wounds, but Clarke just doesn't care. For a few more minutes – for an hour, or maybe two if she can convince her conscience that it's the best thing for _herself_ – this, with Lexa (whatever it is) is enough.

* * *

_Author's Note (Part Deux):_ I think it's actually easier for me to write from Lexa's POV, but I hope this came out alright from Clarke's. Let me know what you think, if you've made it to the end!


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